The Frost of Springtime Read Online Free PDF Page B

him? Did she know of the burning desires that ignited from
her soft embrace? Could she sense—Dieu, could she feel—the extent of his
passion?
    The truth was mind-boggling. The realization was terrifying. And the
onslaught of unorthodox urges paralyzed his mind and body in a thick haze. It
had taken, damn it, just over a year for the inevitable to happen: his ward had
matured during his absence.
    And little Sofia was not so little anymore.
    Granted, she’d always possessed promising beauty. It could not be
ignored then and it certainly could not be denied now. Ever since Sofia’s
seventeenth birthday, innocent nudges were no longer so innocent. Sarcastic
insults had become tentative flirtations. In a way, Aleksender freely admitted
to himself, enlisting in the military had been an escape from the inevitable.
    Luckily, for him, the pains of jealousy had never fully surfaced. Over
the years, Sofia had never expressed the desire to court a gentleman nor seek
out a proper suitor for marriage. He’d reluctantly questioned her disinterest
in acquiring a husband—and her response had pleased him far more than it should
have.
    “Oh, my silly, silly, Alek!” she’d exclaimed, ever the actress,
clutching her heart with a rather comedic and melodramatic passion. “Why, don’t
you know? You, mon amour, are the man of my life!”
    The man of Sofia’s life.
    Those playful words had behaved as a rude awakening. Aleksender had
known he was in terrible trouble. Whether she’d been aware of it or not, they
were trudging dangerous grounds. After all—some lines simply could not be
crossed.
    The recollection violently tore through his thoughts. On the afternoon
of his departure, they had embraced, and he had kissed her. Within the potency
of that moment, it had seemed an incredibly natural thing to do—kissing Sofia
on her lips. He could have died out on the battlefield, alone and empty, without
ever knowing her taste. Only now did he realize the gravity of such a thing.
    But then again Aleksender could have never anticipated this.
    Where was the little one who he’d taught the alphabet? Where was the
weeping child who’d sneak to the de Lefèvre chateau in the middle of the night
and toss herself in the shelter of his arms, seeking comfort from her
reoccurring nightmares? Where was the bright-eyed child who shuddered at the
thought of a snowstorm? And what had ever become of the girl who’d lie in his
drawing room—sprawled across the warmed floorboards like a feline—lost within
the throes of his elaborate stories?
    Gone was the child who he’d once adored. And it was a breathtaking
woman who now stood in her place.

CHAPTER
THREE
    Sofia Rose had first
decided she’d marry Aleksender de Lefèvre nine years ago. Such longings were
all in good fantasy. Her attachment was to be expected.
    The man had rescued her from the endless floggings of her mother. He’d
saved her dignity from the life of a whore. He had educated her, cared for her,
dressed and fed her, built an entire convent house in the saving grace of her
name. He’d fueled her talents and secured her a position in the opera’s chorus
line. He’d hired none other than Marie Taglioni, the widely adored Swedish
prima ballerina, as her private dancing instructor. He had dried her tears and
chased away the monsters of her nightmares.
    He had been her everything—her hope, her inspiration, and even her
despair. Days before Aleksender had left for the war, he’d sworn to write weekly. Months had passed without a single utterance. The
grave realization had been soul-shattering for Sofia.
    A life without Aleksender? What life? Without
his gentle touches, without his guidance and devotion, she could have let Death
claim her. And he almost had. Sofia had fallen deathly ill.
    By strict order of her doctor, she was pardoned from Salle Le Peletier
for bed rest. Aleksender had been her other half. She’d never felt such pain,
such indescribable sorrow and heartache. The